


Secret Gardens, Auspicious Encounters

by caxandra



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 4+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Historical, Falling In Love, Historical, M/M, Malfoy Manor (Harry Potter), Strangers to Lovers, Tomarrymort Valentines Exchange 2021, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:47:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29817591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caxandra/pseuds/caxandra
Summary: Based off a prompt fromedvicin the 2021 Tomarrymort Valentines Exchange:Late 19th/early 20th century. There's something going on between them when they meet in Malfoy Manor's gardens.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8
Collections: Tomarrymort Valentines Exchange 2021





	Secret Gardens, Auspicious Encounters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [edvic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/edvic/gifts).



> Not beta read. 
> 
> I apologize for any historical inaccuracies. Feel free to inform me of my mistakes in the comments.

Harry trailed his fingers across the delicately embroidered white silk curtains, waiting to meet the mysterious guest the Malfoys had promised to introduce him to. 

He glanced through the window, where towering shrubs of forsythia and dainty beds of roses dotted the Malfoy Gardens. An elaborate, three-tiered fountain stood proudly above rows and rows of neatly trimmed hedges. Water flowed freely from the slender spout, forming delicate sprays of the liquid. Its droplets shimmered in the rays of sunlight.

As the door creaked open quietly behind him, Harry refocused his attention on the room. Soft, measured footsteps followed, the pace a slow, steady pattern against the silence. 

_The mysterious guest._

Harry’s pulse fluttered nervously. Whether it be from excitement or apprehension, Harry did not know. Perhaps it was both. As the footsteps grew closer, he could almost feel a strange _pull_ that grew stronger while the low humming of the bond increased in pitch and frequency. It was if he was being physically tugged toward the other person. 

_What was this? Why did he feel like this?_

After the footsteps had stopped, the guest undoubtedly standing right behind him, Harry could feel the frenzied vibration of the bond. The pull was so great that his heart felt it was being pulled from his rightful positioning within his ribs and straining against its bony enclosure.

Overwhelmed by the powerful assault, Harry hesitated. After a lengthy pause spent collecting himself, he spoke while staring out the window, unwilling to turn around and meet his mysterious guest. 

“I have never met you, yet I _feel_ when I am around you. Do you feel it too?” 

Another footstep followed, the noise a soft creak against the polished wooden floor.

At last, Harry turned around to meet the guest, a man who was extending his hand, palm facing upwards, his features betraying a quiet strength. The man was tall, dressed in fitted black robes that accentuated his figure, displaying the broad line of his shoulders and gentle inward curve to his waist. The pull reached a fever pitch, shrieking as the distance between them shortened, causing Harry’s heart to beat wildly within his chest.

“I do. I feel that I know you intimately,” the man responded easily, his dark eyes gazing at Harry with an unrestrained intensity, his black pools an abyss Harry would gladly lose himself in. 

Unable to ignore the ringing in his eardrums and blood rushing through his head any longer, Harry accepted the offer, placing his hand gently in the palm of the stranger. At once, the bond relaxed, becoming an utterly peaceful thing. It purred at a baritone tone, wrapping Harry and the man around and around with its satisfied strands. Harry could once again breathe easily.

The stranger clasped his other hand atop his own, the rays of sunlight highlighting something he was wearing. The illuminated object was a brilliantly gleaming ring. A malachite gemstone was embedded in the center and surrounded by a thick etched silver band. The silver band was composed of two elegantly coiled snakes, their eyes studded with sparkling white diamonds. 

Harry swallowed before tilting his head up. 

“Whatever this is, it is more than deja vu. It must be. Who are you, to make me feel so?” he whispered, all too aware of the delicate balance that hung between them.

The guest thumbed gingerly at his fingers, his flitting touch on his skin light and airy. He murmured, “I am the Heir of Slytherin.”

The Heir of Slytherin then gripped Harry’s wrist and stroked the back of his hand with gentle fondness. Goosebumps raised on Harry’s forearm each time he repeated the movement, although Harry made no motion to pull away.

“Let me,” said the Heir, squeezing gently around his wrist. 

Harry nodded, the taste of the electricity sparking between them almost tangible on his tongue. Taking his time, as the Heir raised Harry’s hand to his mouth, Harry shivered lightly at the buzzing tension thrumming between them.

Then the Heir kissed him by bringing his hand to his lips, his intoxicating gaze never once leaving Harry’s eyes. The Heir savored the kiss, leaving his lips on his flesh longer than was strictly appropriate, causing Harry’s sense to flail wildly. He could feel everything: the light pressure of smooth lips against his skin, the barely-there heat of his breath, the energy that flowed between them at their physical points of connection. 

Eventually, with great grace, the Heir of Slytherin lowered Harry’s hand and reluctantly let go. As soon as the contact between them was no more, the bond flared to an insistent, demanding ferocity not unlike that of before.

The kiss was a promise, but for what, Harry did not know. But Harry could wonder, and wonder he did as the Heir exited the room while the bond fading into nothingness.

They next met in the gardens in early summer, amidst the ephemeral blooms of flowering azaleas with pale pink petals and fuchsia pistils and tall vermilion and milk-white rhododendrons, each contrasting starkly with the dark green of the underbrush. 

The Heir approached Harry, brushing past the plentiful flowers, with his hands clasped behind his back. With each ambled step he took, the bond reappeared and the intensity gradually increased, brushing the two with happiness of its existence once more.

“We meet again,” the Heir said evenly.

Harry tilted his head to the side, and he said, “It seems we are destined to always meet at Malfoy Manor.”

The Heir dipped his head as he withdrew his hand to reveal a bouquet of red and pink camellias, their delicate, thin petals curled toward Harry, as if reaching out to him. 

“For my amator.” His voice was dipped in creamy curls of dark chocolate, dripping in indulgence and spiced with a hint of sea salt, and his smooth, velvety low timber was the richest decadence of them all.

Harry took the proffered bouquet and brought it to his nose, inhaling deeply. The camellias were as sweet and musky as a lazy summer day, their fragrance lingering in the nooks and crannies of his olfactory receptors even after he had stopped scenting them.

“I did not know that camellias had a scent,” Harry said, raising his eyes to meet the Heir’s gaze.

The Heir smiled in response. “A special breed of camellia, I assure you. Nothing but the best.”

Harry pinched the stem of a single red camellia, admiring the deep scarlet color that was so blinding he could hardly bear to gaze directly upon it. “Passion and desire.” Then he pinched a pink camellia, the pale hue the antithesis of its brighter sister, yet still as captivating. “Deep longing.”

While both camellias had differing meanings when presented by themselves, once they were arranged together, red and pink camellias professed romantic love. He clasped the bouquet tighter. 

“Do you love me?” inquired Harry, his throat tightening, the bond drawn as tight as a taut string. 

“Do you?”

Harry whispered, “I don’t even know your name.” He hugged the bouquet tighter and brought it closer to his chest, as if it could alleviate the deep aching inside of his heart.

“Tom. Tom Marvolo Riddle.”

Harry made a soft noise. “Harry. Harry James Potter.”

Tom extended his palm out for Harry to take. Harry did, and Tom curled his fingers around his hand as they ambled through the stunning displays of the Malfoy Gardens, the bond singing in dulcet tones while they did so.

A warm feeling enveloped Harry as he stood beside Tom and browsed the vast collection of the Malfoy Library. There was no need for conversation, not when the closeness of their proximity satisfied their bond’s insistent demands. But, oh, how Harry craved Tom’s touch! 

For how long Tom remained close to him without approaching him, Harry did not know. The time they spent apart was excruciating because of the absence of the bond, a hollow hole in his being. Yet, each moment spent together was spent in leisure as each moment flitted by. 

As Harry reached out for a book, Tom’s gentle touch on his forearm stopped him, causing the bond to jump slightly from excitement before calming down. 

Harry swiveled his head to gaze fondly upon Tom, who was wearing a set of embroidered black dress robes, his lapel decorated from head to toe in tiny, dazzling jewels that twinkled and refracted as he moved under the low light of the library. 

“Yes?” Harry asked.

“Let me love you,” Tom uttered, his voice tender. 

Harry remained silent, and he gazed in Tom’s shadowed eyes. What he saw left him breathless. Upfront passion and longing veiled the loving sentiment. As Tom’s hidden love revealed itself, blazing heat unfurled along his body, leaving behind only pleasant warmth in its place. The wildfire spread from his fingertips to his innermost parts. Harry was breathless, yet he desired more.

_I want you,_ Tom said. _I love you,_ his eyes told him. 

Harry’s eyes softened. _I love you too,_ he wanted to reply. 

“You already do,” Harry said instead.

Tom let go of his featherlight touch. Harry let out a soft noise and clasped their hands together, interlocking their fingers at the junction of flesh, sighing as a wonderful tingle spread out from their conjoined appendages.

“And you? Do you love me?” Tom inquired.

“Unequivocally.”

Harry’s heart rate quickened as the distance between their faces diminished. Tom snaked his other arm around him, embracing him. When their lips touched, soft skin pressing insistently against his own, the unexplainable feeling was stronger than the strongest enchantments. 

Distantly, he was aware of a sensation of something unnameable clicking into place, as if it was always meant to be. Every soft breath he inhaled in made him feel _whole_. Although strong, the tingling sensation was not unbearable, instead the opposite: it was pleasantly intense, rippling from the tips of his fingers to his ears and toes.

Alas, it could not last. After an indeterminable amount of time, their lips parted. 

“Next time,” Tom uttered, his voice rough from their kiss. “Next time, I will truly be with you.”

He slipped an antique volume into Harry’s hands as he walked away, swaying slightly. The bond pulsed weakly before it faded away entirely. Harry resisted the urge to sigh as he watched Tom depart. 

_Metaphysics of Love_ , the title read. Harry ran his hand down the worn front hard cover, tracing the engraved letters with his index finger, feeling the smooth grooves that contrasted against the roughened cover with its random bumps and divots.

The next time Harry saw Tom was at Abraxas’s wedding in the autumn, a lavish and extravagant event attended by hundreds in the luxurious gardens. 

After the bride and groom had made their vows and tied the knot, all proceeded to the joyous after-party celebrations under the watchful eye of the setting sun. Harry ate his slice of wedding cake, savoring the delectable taste of the frosted fruitcake on the tip of his tongue. 

Tom approached him, to which Harry dipped his head. In response, Tom smiled, a wonderful, heady thing, and sat down in the seat beside him, handing him a champagne flute while his signet ring glinted in the evening light.

“Thank you for the book,” Harry said. He accepted the offered drink.

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Immensely. It reminded me of you. With the distance between us so great, the absence of our connection made me feel hollow. It felt like,” Harry paused, trying to find the correct words, “a gaping cavity in my chest that I could never fill, no matter how hard I tried,” he finished.

Tom sipped from his own flute, eyes never leaving Harry’s face. “I am sorry that I made you feel so. I myself felt much the same. It is only when we are together that I feel whole.”

Below the table, Harry entwined his arm around Tom’s torso. “You need not apologize. I am simply happy to be with you. If it would make you happy, I will return the book.”

Tom leaned into Harry’s embrace and replied, “Gifts do not need to be returned.” 

Harry laid his head against Tom’s shoulder, feeling the slow, measured rise and fall of Tom’s body. He was content.

They watched the bride and groom dance and twirl. The bride spun around in an ornate wedding dress decorated by orange blossoms on her bosom, her demi-train following her movements. Dressed in a handsome black frock coat and pearl colored gloves, his black top hat never moving an inch on his head as he moved, the groom spun his bride around gracefully.

When the dancing had come to an end, Tom said, “Congratulations.” He raised his glass to clink against Harry’s own, the distinct, delicate tinkle instantly discernible from the gaiety of low rumbles of chuckles and medium-pitched laughter. 

“For them? Or for us?” asked Harry, smiling a bit, pleased by Tom’s antics. He sipped from the champagne, savoring the sweetness and bubbly sensation against his tongue.

But Harry appreciated Tom more, as Tom’s subtle smile and sparkling, mischievous irises told him all that he needed to know. 

On Valentine’s Day, Harry placed the delivered card he had found at his front door on the table. He opened it slowly, taking great care not to damage the card.

It was a wonderful, detailed piece of art. In the center of the illustration, Tom knelt beside Harry, a glove in his outstretched hand, and they were surrounded by rich red and pale pink camellias. The illustrated version of himself was smiling, while Tom was looking up with adoration in his eyes.

The border of the card was made from soft cloth and dainty white lace. Harry smiled at the sight, running his finger down the lace, feeling the fragility of the fabric. As he released his finger, he caught a whiff of sweet musk, the same scent that pervaded his dreams. _It was the scent of the camellias,_ Harry realized.

He unfolded the card, upon which he was presented with a white silk glove. His heart fluttered at the sight. Tradition had it that if man gifted a glove on Valentine’s Day and the receiver wore it on Easter Sunday, it meant his love was reciprocated. But Harry didn’t need that a month to make up his mind. He already had.

The card was written in Tom’s looping, elegant handwriting.

> _Dear Harry,_
> 
> _I cannot help that I only feel when I am with you._
> 
> _I cannot help that I feel nothing without you._
> 
> _Each time we meet, my life begins anew. I am but a hollow shell of the man I am when I am with you, consumed by a terrible, great, vast aching void inside of me. With each passing day devoid of your physical presence, my loneliness rends my still-beating heart daily from an unremarkable organ into unrecognizable chunks of messy, bloody muscle._
> 
> _Without you, I am a frozen wasteland of which desolation and bleakness ravages the few remaining structures. You are the warm sun that thaws the snow and ice from the badlands. You are the glimmer of sunlight in the spring that breathes life into the rough, barren ground. You are the cool water flowing down a thirty traveler’s throat, a trickle of paradise found in an arid desert of dry sand._
> 
> _Prior to our first auspicious meeting, I did not know what it meant to love until I saw you._
> 
> _Now, I do not know what it means to live without you—your brilliant mind, your lovely smile, your lithe body._
> 
> _My love for you is my life._
> 
> _For my amator,_
> 
> _Tom Marvolo Riddle_

As if on cue, just as he finished reading the letter, his doorbell rang. He put down the card, and rushed to open the door. He stifled a choked gasp at the sight.

A bouquet lay on his front step. The bouquet was made of brightly colored daffodils and small bunches of baby’s breath, as well as a few blue violets, bright pops of color against the mingled yellow and white flowers.

_Regard, everlasting love, faithfulness._

Harry brought the bouquet up to his nose and inhaled deeply. The strongly scented sweet, woody, and mildly floral smell from the violets were balanced by the light notes of spring from the daffodils. Tom really did know exactly what Harry loved, especially what he craved.

He slid the glove on, delighting at the feel of smooth, soft material on his skin. It fit snugly on his hand, neither too loose nor too tight. 

It was time to reply to Tom in person.


End file.
